After the Fall
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: What happened after the Reinchenbach Fall. Spoilers, yeah, but no one cares. T for cursing and all that jazz.


**After the Fall**

Part of me hated myself for doing all that, for putting on a show.

"_Keep your eyes on me, John."_

It had really been me, falling to my death. But a safety wire borrowed from Mycroft and a cadaver from the hospital to take my place in the grave prevented me from actually dying. I escaped with only minor injuries from the cable too snug about my waist. My clothes absorbed most of the shock from the harness, but that didn't mean the shock did any less to me. And, oh yes, there was the end, the actual fall. I had to hold my breath as the cable let go when I was only inches from the ground. Molly cleaned my wounds—minor cuts and scrapes, to add to the soreness, but I was alive.

Only no one knew it. Just Mycroft and Molly. Now that Moriarty had shot himself, the world was safe for twenty-four hours. But no one could know I was alive.

I felt like a gargoyle, perched on the building opposite 221B Baker Street, the residence I had once shared with John. Though I'd been told reliably that I didn't have a heart (at least, not in the emotional sense. Something had to keep me alive,) I felt the first pangs of loneliness set in once again. I hadn't felt them in so long, maybe because they'd been dulled from years of experience. Even in the same room with my own brother, I felt no friendship. Only the cold, calculating malice that was my elder brother Mycroft. The loneliness hurt, and it brought tears—real tears, like the tears I'd felt while leaving my note—to my eyes. I'd been able to fake crying before, to get clues to a case, but real tears were different. They stung. And my eyes were raw and dry—and probably red, too—from these tears.

I was alone. But "alone" took on a certain desperation. I was not only I, Sherlock Holmes, the world's finest and first consulting detective, but I was lacking my other half, my blogger.

My John.

Yes, I had come to think of him with affection, and not because he was my "pet," as Moriarty had observed. I watched him in the flat, staring at my things sprawled around as usual, watched him shoot the wall, the gunshots ringing in my ears. I watched as he broke down and cried miserably on the couch. I knew that he would never tell anyone I was a fraud. We cared about each other, he and I, although I could hardly show my affection without maintaining my character. It was only when I called him "friend" that I meant to show my affection. We were friends, partners, flatmates, but somehow, it had come to mean more.

We both could not live without each other. And the tears in my eyes and the shaking in my chest affirmed this.

I watched him until he cried himself to sleep. Though the sobs were softer than the gunshots, and I couldn't really hear them over London's noise, I felt them in a way that I have never felt anything in my life. Sounds are not something you can touch. And yet I heard them cutting the air, through London's honking and the sirens, the sound of people from all cultures and the drunks singing their songs. Through all the sounds of life, something in John Watson was dead tonight. And it smelled as poignant as a decomposing cadaver.

By and by, when I thought to end my watch and seek somewhere to sleep—possibly at Molly's if she would have me, or somewhere Mycroft would set up for me—I heard my stomach growling, which sent a wave of fatigue over my entire body. I could eat wherever Mycroft sent me, but I was in no mood to confront my brother, especially about such a delicate matter. I could only tease him about the diet; I knew he couldn't touch me. I was taller by a hairpin, and lighter, far lighter, but still. My stomach growled again, sending shivers down my spine. The two bites of apple I'd had, what, two weeks ago? I wracked my brain for the precise time, but realized blankly that I had probably deleted it. It was true that there were better things to think about than when I had last eaten. I recalled that John usually made me finish what meager meal I made for myself, and usually implored me to eat half an apple, but we were called away on a case, and John had no time to nag me.

I thought of the other option—that I could continue to go without until I got to Germany, which was my first stop in dealing with Moriarty's extensive network. Digesting would only slow me down, anyway, and I had a lot of thinking to do between now and then. But my iron strength was waning. It would only be a matter of time before I fainted from exhaustion and hunger. I had to eat. Immediately.

I climbed down the fire escape and let myself in to 221B Baker Street. I still had the key, although I could've easily picked the lock—child's play. I strode quietly up the stairs and went to pick the lock on the door to the flat, but found it open. Maybe John had forgot to lock it. I worried for a moment, but remembered that John had been in the military. He could easily shoot first and ask questions later.

I entered the living room, but ignored it and moved to the kitchen. Everything had been left untouched, and I was amused that John had elected to keep my chemistry set on the table. I tightened my scarf and then loosened it again and ran my gloved hand through my hair. It was still slightly damp from the shower I'd had at the hospital, to wash off the blood and stay out of the way while my "dead body" was presented for all to see. I'd been given new clothes later, identical to the ones on my "corpse." These, however, didn't smell like my life, which kind of irritated me.

My last chance to smell John was in my grave.

I felt the weakness going to my head, and knew I had to act fast before I passed out on the kitchen floor. Often, after working cases where I neither ate nor slept, I would resign to the tire I felt anywhere. Even the kitchen floor was a suitable bed, and it was beginning to look like one right now. I opened the refrigerator door and the pantries, being careful to avoid my own booby traps and to be as quiet as possible. I didn't want to alert John to my presence, lest he should find out it was I. As usual, my experiments filled up most of the nooks and crannies of the fridge and pantries. Anything else we had was spoiled or poisoned (little post-it notes on the fridge for John that I glanced over to make sure I hadn't missed anything). Finally, I found an apple. It was bruised and dirty, but it was food, and admittedly, I was starving. I washed it off in the sink and then took a bite, my mouth tingling with the citrus taste. I hoped John wouldn't miss the apple, which would lead him to discover that someone had been here, and it could lead him to the proper conclusion. I deduced, however, that he was too overcome by sorrow to detect properly, and so thought myself safe as long as I wasn't caught.

I finished the apple down to the core and licked the last of it from my lips. I felt better, at least, and casually tossed the apple core in the garbage disposal in the sink, hoping it wasn't on, for that was something I had overlooked and realized—too late; I was slipping—that the noise could very well give me away. It was off, though, and I cursed my digestive system for slowing me, though I admitted it was better than fainting. Satisfied I wouldn't have to ask, and therefore be forced to join, my brother for a meal, I left by the way I came, erasing any evidence of my existence carefully.

Outside, I turned my coat collar up out of habit and stared at the payphone. I was waiting for it to start ringing. Mycroft was going to take me somewhere safe until this had all blown over. It was too late for the bustle of life to be much, and so no one noticed me as I walked between the shadows to the payphone. It rang once I got to it. I stepped inside the booth.

"Hello, Mycroft. You're getting slow."

"You're late, Shirley, as usual." Mycroft replied mockingly. I narrowed my eyes.

"Where's my car, Mycroft?"

"You'd see it if you looked, Sherlock."

I turned around and saw a black car. One of Mycroft's men was opening the door for me. I hung up without saying anything else to my brother and got into the car. I resisted the urge to text anyone I knew and settled for playing with my phone idly. I was bored already, and couldn't wait to go to Germany, but I was tired as well. Even my meager dinner of a single apple was enough to show me how tired I was. I did almost fall asleep twice during the car ride. When we arrived, two more of Mycroft's men came to escort me to the room in the hotel where I was to be staying.

Knowing Mycroft, this place was safe, and I could relax. I didn't, really, forcing myself to stay restless and alert, even as I was handed the key to my room. The hotel was deserted, that much I had deduced, and had been for some time. New renovations were recent, and clearly Mycroft's design and style. The bedroom was simple, like any other hotel room I'd seen, but with essences of Mycroft everywhere. I expected the air to stink of his cologne. On the bed was a replica of my dressing gown left behind in 221B. I checked the room for bugs and surveillance cameras, though, before changing and got into bed. I watched some telly for a while, and then got bored of it so I lay down to rest in the darkness. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, Mycroft called me and insisted on having breakfast with me. I got dressed in the clothes provided for me and knotted my scarf tightly at my neck, slipping into my wool coat. I turned up the collar of my coat as usual and tidied my hair before joining Mycroft in the dining area. He was wearing a suit, as usual. I took some comfort from seeing his men everywhere. No one would know that the great Sherlock Holmes had actually survived his death-defying feat. As it should be.

Mycroft greeted me in his usual way, that serpentine smile on his face as his private cook served us both. The meal in front of me was something only Mycroft could know about me: my favorite food.

Secretly, I took delight in a stack of buttermilk pancakes lightly drizzled with syrup and topped with whipped cream and a touch of apple crumble. Alongside it, though, was what really caught my attention: Japanese green tea. I could see the loose leaves floating in it. I ignored the pancakes and instead went straight for the tea. If 'd been hungry waking up, I wasn't now. I could control my hunger and felt great pride in the fact. Besides, I was not going to indulge my brother, even if my stomach wanted me to. Mycroft was enjoying his breakfast of sausage and eggs with a side of rye toast and black coffee with two sugars. I hadn't had my favorite tea in a long time, being financially inept, so Mycroft was actually treating me. Why?

Oh. Because he wanted something in return. Something important. Credit, most likely, which was something he was not going to get. Boring. Not my problem right now. I slurped my tea, which was strangely polite in Japan but annoyed Mycroft. My brother cleared his throat.

"I suppose you'll be wanting a flight."

"Yes."

"To Germany?"

"Yes."

"Do you miss your violin?" He was smiling, a face I hated to see on him. His short comb-over hair and poisonous dark eyes gleamed with unsaid torture.

"I'll make do without her," I replied stuffily. "How's the diet coming along?" I smirked cheekily, knowing that Mycroft's breakfast wasn't on his diet.

Mycroft's smile faded, which made mine spread wider. I liked seeing my brother squirm. "You always _did_ upset Mummy so, with your attitude."

"_I_ upset her?" I drank my tea, slurping it on purpose to unhinge Mycroft. This time, I let the comment slide. Germany, and the first of Moriarty's men, was more important than my brother.

"Your flight is scheduled for noon."

"That's no good. I need it as soon as possible."

"Noon, Sherlock."

"I need it for half an hour from now." I replied, putting down my teacup. "I need to be out of England, Mycroft. You know that."

Mycroft nodded. "All right. I'll reschedule your flight."

I nodded curtly, as much of a 'thank you' as my brother could expect from me. "I'll be in my room."

As I watched a little of daytime telly, my thoughts roamed to John again. I went through his daily routine in my mind: get up, look for breakfast among experiments, ask Sherlock if there's any food, go to a café because there isn't, come back to 221B Baker Street, solve crimes with Sherlock, eat dinner with Sherlock (kind of), blog, go to sleep. That would surely change because I wasn't there. I hoped he wouldn't spend the day moping. Frustrated, I threw myself back onto the bed, pressed my hands together, and closed my eyes. I needed to get nicotine patches as soon as I got to Germany. Without my violin and without John to bounce off of, I had to prepare for twice as much thinking and twice as many patches.

Mycroft came into the room without knocking. "Give me your phone."

"What?" I sat up, genuinely annoyed by the intrusion.

"Your _phone_, Shirley." Mycroft sighed, holding out his hand and wriggling his fingers, obviously asking for it politely. "Always a chance the number could be recognized."

He was quoting me. I surrendered my phone, already feeling blind without it, and he immediately deposited a new one into my waiting palm. Same model, same features, same look as my old one. "New number, I presume?" I asked.

Mycroft nodded. "Of course. Don't be stupid. It's got my number and the number of your personal bodyguards. For your safety." There it was again, that serpentine smile. How I loathed him. But I needed to be civil, at least until it was safe to return.

I nodded in understanding and pocketed my new phone. I felt a pang of loneliness again, felt it eating away at me as I boarded the plane. Flying to Germany, the first leg of a long journey, I cried. I really and truly cried like I hadn't since childhood, mourning every mile I was away from my only and best friend.

Three years had passed since my supposed death. During those three years, I was not idle. I'd tracked down all of Moriarty's wide spider web of crime. I'd erased the existence of Richard Brook. I'd hacked into and destroyed some of the most formidable criminals the world over. And now, it was done.

I was on a plane to England, a place I hadn't dared to set foot in these past three years. Numbers, only numbers. Nothing else had changed. I was still Sherlock Holmes, although admittedly, I'd lost a substantial amount of weight between foreign illnesses and long periods of starvation to keep my brain sharp and quick. If I had to estimate the number, for I was far from keeping track (weight was boring. If I felt well enough to do my job, my weight was my weight and that was it,) I'd say fifty. I wet my lips. Moriarty's last traces were falling apart at the seams, if they hadn't been destroyed already, and England was below me.

When the plane landed on Mycroft's private strip ten miles out from London, I'd never been so happy to see my brother. He'd gained some weight during my three year absence, but not enough to change more than a few clothing sizes, a matter that didn't concern him. He smiled and returned my old phone. "Welcome back, dear brother. I've already sent for a cab to take you to 221B Baker Street."

I returned my new phone, but not before emailing myself interesting tidbits I'd recorded on the new phone during my travels. Although I knew I could remember or recreate anything of importance, I still wanted the information in a reliable digital copy. I was weary from travel and only nodded at Mycroft. I had no energy for sarcasm or idle threats. Mycroft deduced this and let me alone.

On the cab ride back to London, I fell asleep. I know this because one moment in my consciousness it was light out and the next it was dark. I'd dosed off, I, the great Sherlock Holmes. And I'd done it quite by accident. The cabbie, one of Mycroft's men, honked the horn to wake me as we pulled up to 221B Baker Street.

"Go around back," I managed to get out, my voice and body still heavy and groggy with sleep. Impossibly, yes impossibly.

The cabbie obeyed and dropped me off at the back of the apartment building. I looked up to John's window in our flat and smiled. What time was it? Numbers didn't matter. No more than my weight mattered. Fifty pounds? Ninety? The time was late, could've been early in the morning for all I cared.

I scaled the fire escape and broke into John's window. It wasn't a difficult task, as I had figured out all possible entrances and exits our first week living here. John was asleep and the room was dark, otherwise I wouldn't have risked sneaking in. I strode to the door and listened for evidence that he'd gotten another flatmate. Nothing. That gave me some comfort.

I was awake now, not knowing why I'd been so tired as to fall asleep. I couldn't imagine it now, couldn't possibly see myself drifting off into sleep until I knew that John knew I was alive. I walked back over to the window, blocking the soft golden light from the street lamps with my body, and looked his form over in the bed.

This wasn't the first time I'd watched John Watson sleep. As a man of science, I enjoyed observing all actions that mankind performed so that I might better understand them. All information is valuable to a detective. But John's sleep was restless. He was tense. Was it a night terror? I knew of such things as dreams, but had rarely experienced any myself. A night terror was something so horrible that happened in the brain because of the imagination that it forced the sleeper to talk or scream in his sleep, and even wake up. I leaned against the window, careful not to break it, my arms crossed neatly at my chest. I was aware I probably looked a mess, though I'd done my best before leaving my safe house in Hong Kong to look spiffy. Three years, John, and you haven't changed a bit.

I smiled, satisfied with my observations and willing to wait patiently until morning, pushed myself away from the window with a sigh and padded towards the doorway on quiet feet. I was just about to open the door and go downstairs to my familiar room when I heard him muttering in his sleep.

"Sherlock. Sherlock."

John was shaking in the bed, in his sleep, and I straightened, knowing at once that the terror had to come from the day of my death, when John had watched me fall from the Reichenbach. I felt sorry for putting him through such emotional trauma at once, especially when I had to dive behind an open closet door when he woke up screaming: "_SHERLOCK!_"

I heard him panting, my heart racing from almost being discovered. I waited for him to dismiss his fears and go back to sleep, hoping that he'd moved on, that he'd forgotten me, and that it was nothing more than his horrific memories of the war, as much as it hurt my heart to hope thus. But instead, I heard him crying.

I felt emotions rage up in my chest, and I forced myself to stay calm. I stepped out from behind the closet door and walked to the bed. I sat down at the edge. I felt him looking at me. I closed my eyes against the sudden brightness as he turned on the light.

Then, he punched me.

"Ow,"

I let him, my protest weak.

"Sherlock!" John screamed and punched me again.

"Ow," It was just to let him know I was flesh, really.

"Three years, Sherlock! Three _years_ and you didn't bloody _tell me_?"

Three quick punches in succession. "Owowow," I choked out, my shoulder getting sore from being punched. "Don't be stupid, John! You had to believe I was dead."

This made him stop punching me, made him get a hold of his emotions. I realized that John Watson had often wished to punch me, and I can't say that I blamed him. I was a great detective and a horrible human being, and I knew that quite plainly. He had told me as much when he went off sulking after I'd yelled at him, something that had happened too much during our friendship. I was bitter, stubborn, and a sullen genius, difficult to room with. But here he was, in 221B Baker Street. Waiting for me.

He looked me up and down critically. "You are here, right?"

I clicked my tongue and rolled my head back against the wall where he'd pinned me, though his punches didn't hold me there now. "Obvious. You just punched me at least four times. I think you felt skin!"

He laughed, although I was being a bloody ass. "I missed you, Sherlock. But why didn't you _tell_ me?"

I looked at the blonde doctor standing before me in his dressing gown. I smiled, amused because though I wore my dressing gown about the flat often, he never did. He was always so careful to be fully dressed… He noticed my smile and pulled his robe about him. "I told you," I replied with my usual calm, "you had to believe I was dead, or Moriarty's people wouldn't."

"So why come back now? Seems like a bloody waste of three years." He was beginning to take off his shirt, as if forgetting I was there. I sashayed to the door and opened it with a flourish.

"_I_ haven't been idle," I leaned against the door a minute before closing it promptly behind me. "Meet me in the kitchen and we'll talk."

I looked about the kitchen, which looked similar to the night I saw it three years ago. Remains of take-away food and Mrs. Hudson's cooking lay scattered about as if no one cared to keep the kitchen tidy. I rummaged about looking for tea bags and found the remains of mice behind the microwave and coffee pot. I would have to go about making traps for them, then. They'd probably do as a meal for my bird-eating spider. That is, if Lestrade hadn't taken him or he'd escaped. Mental note: set a trap for the spider, too, just in case.

I was just finished pouring the tea as John, now fully dressed, lowered himself into his armchair. I gave a cup to John and then sat in my chair. Earl grey was nothing compared to Chinese black, but it would have to do. I'd sweetened mine with two sugars, but didn't put any sugar in John's, knowing he didn't like sugar. We sat in silence, drinking our tea. We were looking at each other, using my method of deduction. Well, I wasn't. I was being lazy. But I could tell from John's dark eyes that he was. Fifty pounds is a lot for a human being to lose at once. Of course I knew that. I must have looked like a wreck. I was thin to begin with; don't want to imagine how I look now, cheekbones solid against my skin. It continued to be quiet until John spoke.

"You said you hadn't been idle, Sherlock." Avoiding the topic of my weight, now there was a surprise. But I shouldn't have been surprised, really. He was more curious about what I'd been up to; he knew I didn't eat.

"Yes." I slurped at my tea a bit, eyeing my violin in the corner, untouched, if dusty and out of tune. My fingers hungered to hold and play it. But I focused on my friend. I came to him first, after all, and I'd have to become accustomed to answering questions like this, because Lestrade would want the same answers. Secondhand from John simply wouldn't do, and I would honestly expect no less from the Detective Inspector.

"What _were_ you doing?" John laughed suddenly. "I _still_ can't believe you didn't _die_, you bastard!"

I smiled myself before disappearing behind my cup. "One question at a time." I noticed the belt on my pants was loose and it was driving me crazy. I shrugged out of my coat and took off my scarf absently, throwing them aside. My shirt actually fit me now, although I preferred the tight fit, and my pants were sliding down. I felt like an American rap artist. Ugh. But I restrained myself from fixing my belt and sat back down. "I was stopping crime," I answered simply, suppressing a yawn behind my long fingers. "Unwinding Moriarty's web."

"How did you fake your death?" John was on the edge of his seat, intrigued.

I only sunk further into the comfort of my armchair. I needed to clear my mind. I needed a nicotine patch or three. Better yet, I needed my violin. But I let my chair give me ease for now. I could play the violin later. "Simple. I went skydiving." I smiled.

"And the body?"

"Cadaver from the morgue, of my body type, height, and weight. A little curling and viola! Sherlock Holmes' stunt double." I was trying to be funny and clever, trying to make John smile, to ease his tension. It worked. He was smiling.

"You're a clever bastard," he told me, trying to sound annoyed. But I could sense his relief at my return, my life.

I nodded. "Yes, that's the idea. Oh, sod this!" I stood up, putting my tea down on the table in haste.

"What's the matter?" John asked.

I was feeling at my belt for another loop to tuck it into, to tighten my pants. I couldn't stand the thought my clothes were too big on me, suddenly. It was ruining things. "This sod of a belt's too big," I complained loudly, trying to make a new hole in the leather.

John sighed, shaking his head and laughing. "Maybe you should try growing back into your old clothes, hmm?" What he meant to say was, 'you look like your skull, Sherlock. Your freaking _skull_.'

His words made me relax, especially since I could hear the unspoken ones in his tone, remembering that I hadn't had more than three decent meals in three years. "I was sick a lot overseas, obviously," I replied, to rationalize things, maybe to keep myself from thinking that growing back into my clothes was a good fit—so to speak. "Diseases I'm not accustomed to."

John laughed. "Mrs. Hudson left some cooked ham. Just eat, will you, Sherlock?"

I huffed and collapsed into my chair, a sprawl of long arms and legs. I threw my curly hair back against the plush and eyed Siger the skull on our mantle. I _was_ starving, and my stomach rumbled darkly to prove it. And ham sounded good. I licked my lips and turned my eyes towards the ceiling, closing them restfully. "Welcome home, Sherlock" I said to myself under my breath. "Welcome home."

**Part Two: The Bomber's Henchman**

I woke up in my bed, realizing I'd slept in my clothes.

Well, not my coat and scarf. They were in the living room, draped across my armchair where I'd left them last night. But I was in the dark purple dress shirt and gray pants I'd been in yesterday when I returned home, except they were disheveled now, the shirt wrinkled and the pants all wrong from the way I'd slept. I couldn't remember clearly how I'd gotten into bed last night, (unimportant), but apparently I'd had the sense to remove my belt.

I yawned and got up, trying to fix my clothes and my hair, but I gave up once I realized what exactly had caused me to wake up. And I smiled, because either the ham I'd eaten last night was slowing me down or I had unconsciously deleted it from memory.

Pancakes. And apple crisp.

For a moment, I was something very close to afraid. What if Mycroft had given John the information on my favorite food to tease me? It could happen, you know. Mycroft had John's number—it's very easy, of course. Just a random sequence of numbers, with an area code. The easy way is to hack my phone and get the number. I rolled my eyes. But I wouldn't even try to think past this hunger. If Mycroft was trying to torture me, via John, this time he'd get his way.

I took a quick look at myself in the mirror, and saw that I had lost a bit of weight in my face. I felt at my cheekbones, shuddered. Well, I had never really starved for years before. It was something of a new experience.

A case would _most likely_ distract me, but until then, I decided to join John for breakfast, something we rarely did.

I went out, crossed through the living area, and went into the kitchen. John was just flipping a pancake when I came in and sat at the table, noting that a space was cleared. "Morning!" John greeted lightly. "Breakfast?" He handed me a stack of pancakes with a drizzle of syrup, with whipped cream and a spoonful of apple crisp on the top. I inhaled and exhaled the scent, observing the way my mind and body went limp for it. John handed me a cup of tea as well. Earl grey, pretty much what I drank in England.

"How did you know?" I asked, beginning to cut myself a bite.

"How did I know what?" John asked absently, sitting now with his own stack of pancakes, made identically as mine.

_Ahh_. "No, you didn't know. You simply made this." I looked at him sharply. "You like this, too."

"Yes, I like it," John replied, almost teasing. "Problem?" He imitated me, to the letter. I laughed heartily.

"No, no. This is my favorite food, actually," I continued eating.

"Really?" John leaned forward, intrigued. "So, Sherlock Holmes likes his sweets, eh?"

I straightened my back. "Piss off. It isn't candy, or anything."

John laughed at my tenseness. "Relax, Sherlock, I was joking."

I did relax. I'd been away from home far too long and had forgotten how to behave. For a long time, things were quiet between us, as together we devoured three batches of pancakes and as much tea as usual—about a kettle and a half.

I dried the dishes while John washed them, and it was now that we got to talking again. Trivial matters, really. We joked around and laughed like giddy schoolgirls.

"_Please_ tell me you weren't moping all this time," I was refreshing my nicotine patches and John was reading the paper.

"Hmm?" John rustled the paper. "No, I wasn't. I helped Lestrade when he needed me."

I yawned and flopped down into my armchair, content and relaxed at last. "Hmm. Anything of interest?"

"Nothing you would be interested in. Robberies, stolen jewels, that sort of thing."

"Dull," I pronounced immediately.

"Exactly," John said from behind the paper.

I was about to close my eyes to think when my phone chirped. I pulled it from my pants pocket and read the text. John saw me looking and leaned forward.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade," I answered, smirking. "There's been a murder."

"Rather dreary place for a murder," John remarked as we arrived, by cab, at the scene of the crime.

"No police cars, either…" I noted. _Something's off_. I was proud that, even after a hearty breakfast, I was still sharp. Thank God.

"Shall we go, Sherlock?" John asked, looking up at the apartment complex.

Old. Abandoned. Unused. John's right: Dreary place for a murder. I had my suspicions, but I was curious as well. "Let's go, John." With a flourish of my long wool coat, I made my way up the steps and John and I entered the building.

Something was wrong. The inside of the building smelled of sulfur. "Lestrade?" John called out.

I heard a faint ticking. A time bomb. "Run, John!" I cried.

We both ran from the building, the force of the explosion at our backs, pushing us farther away from the blast. We ended up in the street, much to the chagrin of passing taxis and people. But the bomb's blast had attracted attention, and would soon bring the media.

"You all right, John?" I asked him, sitting up. My back hurt a little, and my ears were ringing from the blast, but I would survive without hospital treatment. John looked to be the same way. He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Let's go," I summoned a taxi. "Scotland Yard!" I barked at the cabbie, and off we drove.

I ignored the looks on the faces of the detectives and other assorted law enforcement as John and I maneuvered our way through the crowd. We were headed straight for Detective-Inspector Gregory Lestrade's office, and I, on point, would not be distracted.

We burst into Lestrade's office, the door slamming behind us in our haste. We were both quite out of breath, although I was willing to wager we were both in good shape. I was malnourished, he out of practice. But we had a job to do.

Lestrade's face was shocked, as I expected it to be when I made my return. I hadn't expected to officially make it so soon, but…"Sherlock!" He gasped.

"Yes, I'm not dead, it's a long story, I'll explain later, not important." I snapped. "Do you believe I'm a fake?"

"Don't be stupid. Of course not," Lestrade replied.

I smiled. "Good man. I'm here because I received a text…" I paused to produce the evidence, "from you, stating there was a murder at the address there."

Lestrade observed the text. "I didn't _send_ you a text, Sherlock! Didn't know you were alive, until you barged into my office." He said the last part in a scolding tone, but I was in no mood to be treated like a child.

"I know that," I huffed, really wanting to say, 'Stupid! _Of course_ I know!' Couldn't lose my patience, though. "What I'm saying is that someone sent a text from your phone, to me, and led John and I to a bomb."

Lestrade looked blankly at me, and then gave the same look to John, who nodded to corroborate my story. Then he looked at his phone. "Bloody hell," he mused. I grinned.

"The text is there?"

"Yeah, but I never bloody _sent_ it!"

"And I believe you." I turned away to look out the windowed office, far above the heads of the gawping law enforcement in the heart of Scotland Yard. I could take pride in their shock later. Right now, I was thinking. "We're dealing with a criminal, obviously, one of Moriarty's men." I felt the room go silent behind me. John, I knew, was waiting for me to continue, patiently, I might add. Lestrade was confused. I figured I'd better explain before his thoughts clouded my mind palace. "I wasn't idle in my three years' absence, to put it simply. I tracked down Moriarty's men and put an end to the strands of his web of crime. All over the world, from France to Hong Kong, Moriarty's syndicate is falling apart. Of course, obviously, I missed one, because he tried to attack me. Dunno if he was counting on John, though. The bomb was not remotely activated."

Lestrade reclined in his chair, beginning to understand. "Ah. So, you think—"

"No," I interrupted him, "I _know_." I went quiet for a moment before swirling around to face him. I was a little faint and dizzy from unknown causes (could be the bombing, malnutrition…), but I could manage. "I died because Moriarty put a price on you lot." I took a breath. "Mrs. Hudson, John, and you," I pointed at Lestrade casually, "would all die by remote bombing. I'm not sure how he was going to do it, but even though he committed suicide, if I didn't make it look like I died, he would still carry that out."

"Well, that explains your death, then," Lestrade began, "but not any connection to Moriarty."

"I think Moriarty was going to lure you out in the same method he lured me out," I rolled my eyes at the blank faces. "I mean, Moriarty's man."

"He…lured you out?"

"Yes," John replied, looking truthfully at Lestrade. I was happy he was answering this question. I was about to lose my patience with the law. "What better way to draw out Sherlock Holmes…"

"…than tell him there's a murder! Brilliant!" Lestrade laughed. "You're brilliant!"

"Elementary," I replied, secretly pleased. "See if you can trace whoever hacked your phone. I doubt they'd be so stupid, but try anyway. I'm off to test a theory." I was about to go.

"Sherlock! Wait!" Lestrade called me back. I turned.

"What?"

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked, his voice tense. I remembered my appearance. Oh. Pity. Yes, Lestrade was _concerned_ about me. The fool. "You don't look well."

"I _was_ overseas," I pointed out. "I was sick. A lot." I cleared my throat. "You'll get a full report from my blogger later." I saw John swell with pride and winked at him. "For now, do as I've told you, if you still have faith in Sherlock Holmes."

"I do." Lestrade replied as I was leaving. John was at my back. Admittedly, I missed the look of a lost puppy in Lestrade's eyes. Yes, he needed me, and he knew it down to his core. I couldn't help smiling as John and I weaved our way through Scotland Yard and I hailed a taxi.

"We're going home?" John asked.

"Yes. I've got a theory, but I need to be home to test it."

John said nothing more, then… "_Are_ you okay, Sherlock?"

I clicked my tongue in annoyance. "Not you too! Look, concern is an emotion that is useless right now. I'm _fine_, John. I'm well enough to solve this case. That should be all that matters to you."

The rest of the cab ride was quiet, but John started up again at home. "Before this morning, when did you last eat?"

I was digging through my things, looking for a pair of binoculars. I didn't want to be distracted, but I rolled my tongue around my mouth as I thought about two things at once. My last meal before breakfast this morning?

"France!" It came to me suddenly as I found the binoculars. "Yes, a small snack between breakfast and lunch…white toast with honey spread on top." Naturally, the image clouded my mind a minute. I managed to push it away, but a stomach growl followed. In response, I pulled a chair to the window overlooking Baker Street, sat, and began to adjust my binoculars.

"You call that a meal, Sherlock?"

"If I finish it, then yes," I'd finally adjusted the binoculars to my liking. I was looking into the window in the building across from us, another apartment building with flats for rent. I knew a young family with newborn triplets lived in the lower level, what would be 'A' to our 'B,' but the 'B' across the street was unoccupied. I'd checked. I sat there staring at the window, watching the long white curtains for signs of movement.

Didn't take long. The curtain rustled. "Found you," I mumbled in triumph, pursing my lips.

"Found what?" John asked from his armchair. Apparently, he hadn't lost his ability to stay alert and listen to everything I said, even if it was barely audible. Everyone else in the world would find this quality quite annoying, but I considered it a good habit mostly.

"There's someone in the 'B' apartment across the way. Dunno what the flat's called. Name's been worn off."

"That's never stopped you before."

"Names are not _important_, John!" I insisted, getting up and pacing a little. "What _is_ important is Moriarty's man who's been hiding out in England, thinking he'll kill me, or worse."

John was about to ask about the 'or worse' part, but one look at me and understanding flashed across his face. "What's the plan?"

I blinked rapidly several times. That was a roadblock in my mind, smeared closed with sweet, fresh honey on crisp white toast. Finally, I had it. "Information." I decided. "We need information, we—" My phone buzzed, interrupting me. I looked at the text. "Lestrade," I looked up at John, "we've got another murder." I pulled on my coat and tightened my scarf at my neck.

"Do we trust the text?" John asked. "What if this is just to lure you out again?"

"Unlikely." I replied. "He wouldn't try the same trick twice. And anyway, Lestrade put something in this one that let me know it's Lestrade." I grinned. "Coming?"

"Yeah," John said, getting up, "but just _what_ did he send you?"

I only grinned wider. "Taxi!"

"Bloke's name is Ronald Adair, son of Earl Adair, the ambassador to Australia."

My throat was parched, my lips dry with excitement. I wet them again. "Enemies?"

"Not that we can find. It's all very confusing," said Lestrade. "He was found working out his accounts,"

I looked the accounts over while Lestrade was talking. I did a quick sweep of the body and then let John go to work.

"He was shot," John said, "with a soft-nosed revolver. Death was instantaneous, been dead about twelve hours."

I nodded, trusting John's judgment. He made the sort of deductions I really didn't care for. "He liked to play poker, never for very large sums of money, going by his accounts. But he recently won £4,200 in a partnership with one Mr. Moran." I walked to the window. "Nothing was stolen?"

"We're still checking, but we think not," Lestrade told me plainly.

"It's a locked box mystery," I mumbled, more to myself than to the others. I spoke aloud again after observing the scene outside the window. "The door was locked from the inside, and the only other way out is through the window, a twenty foot drop onto an undisturbed flower bed. Question, then, is how the killer did it."

"Unless Adair committed suicide," Anderson, who had been quiet for some time, piped up.

I was even more irritated because it was Anderson, although the stupidity of the comment really, as John described it, "threw me off my rocker." "Impossible!" I growled. "There's no residue on his hands! If you don't take my word for it now, the lab will prove I'm right!" I was pacing now, my hands inches away from my ears, elbows bent. It was my thinking pose, and I didn't care how anyone else looked at it. I was trying desperately to see the connection between the man in the window across the street and this crime scene. It then occurred to me that I would have to pretend to die once again.

"Lestrade," I said carefully, pressing my hands together and biting my lower lip as I tried to speak my thoughts properly, "I need to tell you that there is a man living in the abandoned apartment across the street from where I live. I believe that, while not knowing the identity of this man yet, he is the killer you need to catch."

"Am I to believe, then," Lestrade began thoughtfully, and I was excited to see the wheels turning in my pet's head. "That this man is the last of Moriarty's men?"

"I believe so," I replied, trying to pour conviction into my voice. With the discovery of another of Moriarty's men, I had no idea if this was the last. "If not, I will handle the rest personally." I glared at Anderson before dashing away from the crime scene, down the stairs, and hailing a taxi. John was at my heels, thankfully. I sighed when we were sitting in the taxi, glad to have him by my side again.

I needed my best friend.

"Are you ready for some danger?" I questioned him, a glint in my eye.

"Oh, God, yes," John replied eagerly, his eyes lighting up with the same fire.

"Good," I replied, "because I'm going to need to die again."

"I don't understand," Anderson complained. "How is this supposed to work?"

I was in my armchair, tuning my violin and rosining up my bow. It had been too long since I'd touched my beauty. But Anderson's insolence made me want to cannibalize him—save the world the trouble. I grit my teeth in annoyance and threw him my best glare. "I will sit in that chair, there," I nodded my head. It was early evening, and the sun would soon set completely, but there was a fine view of my flat and the building opposite, the last rays of the sun shifting through the shadows. "The man will make to shoot me, John will be waiting, and I will dodge the bullet. Simple. And then, you lot," I indicated Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, and a few other officers I didn't recognize (new recruits? I'd been away,) "will arrest him." I ran my bow along the violin's strings, watching the rosin's dust fade into the air in the flat. "Questions?" I looked at Anderson particularly for that one, my hunger growing again. Yes, I _would_ eat Anderson, cook him in some sweet sauce and spices, and I would _enjoy_ it, too. Of course, it was all a jest, but the thought did cross my mind. I thought to tell John about it later; he'd appreciate it, anyway. Neither of us were very big fans of Anderson.

Speaking of John, I looked at him out of the corner of my eye as I began to play my violin softly. He was nervous putting me in this position, I could tell, but he knew his skills were not to be underestimated—knew that I had not underestimated them—and so trusted himself to do this. Good boy, John, I thought despite myself.

"All right then, it's settled," John was whispering into the mouthpiece of the phone. I had to really listen intently, but luckily, my ears were all for him. I watched the plainclothes Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson mulling around the building outside, ready to catch the murderer. "I'm in position."

"Excellent," I praised. "Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson are in place, too. This will work well!" I was still holding my violin and bow in the hand that wasn't occupied with my cell. I was hoping to get a little playing done, and possibly have a shield if I couldn't dodge the bullet in time. I had to be very careful, but the prize outweighed the risks.

"If you say so. John out." And he hung up. I took my position in the window, took a deep breath to relax, and then began to play my violin.

I lost track of time, but it had just gotten dark when I almost—almost—missed the sound of gunshots. I immediately jumped away from my seat at the window. A bullet whizzed through the window and embedded itself in the back of the chair. I let myself breathe heavily a moment before I put my violin down and threw the bow somewhere. I ran down the stairs, forsaking my trademark coat and scarf for once, and ran up the stairs where John was wrestling with the assailant. I recognized him…but this was no time to play Guess Who. I lunged at the heavier man as well and gave him a few boxing swings to the chest and neck while John held his waist. He managed to swing and get me in the side of my head. The man was powerful, and the blow knocked me down. I lay on the ground for a precious few moments, weakened from the blow and fatigue, until I heard John shouting my name.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!"

I sat up, my head spinning. I could see threes of everything, and my hands were shaking madly. Possible concussion, but not serious. I stood up, slowly, so as not to shock my system, and looked around. John had the man, now tired and defeated, in the traditional arrest position—hands behind the back. I coughed the last of my dizziness away and then nodded. "Let's get him down to Lestrade right away."

"The man is Sebastian Moran," I told Lestrade with absolute confidence. "He's the same man that Ronald Adair won the money with."

"So, what's the connection?" Lestrade asked.

I sighed, rubbing the side of my head where I'd been punched. I was worried about damage to my brain—my most valuable asset. "Well, that I'm not quite sure of, but—" I was interrupted by Anderson again.

"The great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes? Unsure? Well, then, you must be slipping!"

I ignored Anderson and focused on what I had deduced, Lestrade begging for it like a dog for a treat. "I think the motive may have been this: Sebastian Moran got paid for cheating at poker. Adair caught him and threatened to tell someone, so Moran had to get rid of the only evidence."

"I'll believe that," Lestrade hit my shoulder playfully. "Welcome back, Sherlock."

"Thanks," I replied, smiling in gratitude. I took pride in the insulted look on Anderson's face as they took Moran away.

**Part Three: The Kitchen Floor (or, After the Events of 'After the Fall' when all is Quiet)**

I was up late as usual, in the kitchen, fighting hunger. I'd had a terrible time of it, for even during a case, my mind wandered to food and my stomach had growled in want. I refused to have dinner with John and went straight to bed, which he didn't question. I hadn't been asleep long before restlessness overtook me. So here I was.

I needed something to do, being frightfully bored. I was just about to put together a new experiment, when suddenly my vision went black and I fell into unconsciousness.

When I came to, I started because John was looming over me. "Need help?" He asked, laughing.

I shook my head, standing, although this proved a difficult feat after all. "I'm fine," I mumbled, groggy from my unplanned nap.

"Right," John teased. "Not like I haven't found you on the kitchen floor before, but this time, I think I'm warranted a bit of worry."

"We don't have any food, John," I asserted, running a hand through my dark curls. "Don't see the point of it all, anyway."

"I do," John replied, this time with concern in his voice. I sighed.

"Well, yes, I suppose I do need to fit properly in my clothes again." I was still fully dressed in dayclothes, so I tugged at my loose shirt helplessly. "Being too light is almost worse than being too heavy, although both make me slow. I hate the way my clothes are sagging. And the _sympathy_," I groaned in frustration, throwing myself against the sink. "The air's _thick_ with it!"

"Mmm," John mused. "We have eggs."

"Yes we do," I mused thoughtfully, licking my lips a bit. Eggs for dinner? Illogical…but delicious.

"Shall I make eggs at one in the morning?" John asked. Okay, early breakfast, then.

"Sure, why not?" I dismissed, giggling. "Better than eating Anderson, I suppose."

"I imagine he'd be a tough bit of meat," John agreed. It was exactly five seconds before we both burst out laughing.

"Sherlock?" John asked as he was finishing up the scrambled eggs. I was hovering close by, admittedly starved 'to death.'

"Hmm?" Perhaps it came too close to his ear, because he jumped out of his skin.

"You…wouldn't really turn into a cannibal…would you?"

I snorted. "_No_, John, don't be stupid." A pause. "I could get arrested for that."

We laughed again. "Probably worse," John added, rolling the eggs onto a plate and handing them to me.

"Probably." I stabbed my eggs with the violence of a serial killer.

Silence. Then, John asked, "is it nice to be back?"

"Hmm?" I mused through a mouthful of food.

"Is it nice to be home?" John clarified.

I swallowed thickly. "Yes, John. Yes it is."

**END**


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